


Pinned Insects

by flight815kitsune



Series: things written for unregisteredmutant [6]
Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharpecest giftfic for unregisteredmutant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinned Insects

He had never understood his sister’s hobby of insect collecting. There was scientific curiosity, and then there was _her_. 

“Honestly Thomas, it’s an insect. Surely you’ve swatted dozens of them.”

He hadn’t.

When she had first begun pinning them, she had simply driven the pin through while they were freshly caught. They struggled, wings beating the surface of whatever she had pinned them to, attempting desperately to break free. Some succeeded in pulling their bodies free of the metal only to die disemboweled with whatever passed for the entrails of insects smeared across the page. Others reduced their wings to tatters in some last show of rebellion. It was foolish to attribute such thinking to insects, but far less depressing than the alternative- that such struggles were destined to be meaningless.

When she was older she learned of a technique to pinch the thorax to stun her prey. The sound was a soft one with all the finality of a death rattle. 

Still later she would expose them to a poison intended to kill them. Often this was done after she had squeezed them. She had mentioned that such an act would preserve the quality of the specimens. It seemed in some ways to be more merciful, but if the thought of it being so had ever crossed her mind she hadn’t felt it necessary to share the idea with him.

Some sometimes survived this, too. perhaps she had not allowed them long enough in the killing jar. Perhaps her attempts to make them powerless had not been as successful as she had intended.

For all her talk of the inherent weakness of the creatures, some were certainly resilient.

*

  
The first time Lucille had touched him, he was young. So very young, eight, perhaps nine years old. It had begun with the taboo books, with her whispering in his ear about what exactly they were doing. Her hand on his waist was nothing to be concerned about, an embrace that had occurred dozens of times before. The way it had slipped downward as she spoke of forbidden love and lovers could have been an absent minded thing. The way it moves to the front of his breeches and squeezes makes him jolt. Her soft giggle in his ear is almost enough to set him at ease, but she doesn’t stop. He shifts to escape her touch and the pressure only increases. It’s strange and she’s acting like there’s nothing unusual about this.

*

He is in her lap like some sort of oversized doll. The book is open in his, above a blanket to keep out the cold. They didn’t have much to spare for coal or firewood, not with their father away for an indeterminate amount of time. Her chin rests on his shoulder as he recites Little Miss Muffet. She tickles his side when he comes to the line about the spider, prompting a shriek of laughter that is quickly shushed by Mother and glared at.  When she returns to her embroidery, Lucille whispers “Quiet.” into his ear.

Her fingers are cold against his bare skin, but her chest against his back is warm. She has him pinned. The open room around them and mother within earshot- it certainly felt like being framed in one of those dark wood shadowboxes that hung from Lucille’s walls.

Her touch is too rough, her strokes burn as much as they spark pleasure. He squirms beneath her every movement, breath coming faster.

She clucks with her tongue as though she has no idea why he had paused. Her “Keep reading.” is the demand of a teacher rather than polite request.

He has the book in his lap, the pages falling open, forgotten. It takes him a moment to find his tongue and even then the words are rushed and clumped together.

He climaxes at the end of Little Jack Horner, his voice raising in pitch but thankfully not volume for, “What a good boy am I.”  A desperate glance told him that if their mother had noticed she had attributed it to theatrics and not what it truly was.

Lucille kisses the back of his neck, taking her hand back and wiping it off in her skirts before turning the page for herself.

Her voice is sweet and clear- “Ding, dong, dell-”

*

 His eyes were closed. “Can we not stay like this instead?”

“I wish to make you happy.”

“This is enough. As long as you are beside me, it is enough.” His thumb brushes the mark on her collarbone. The cut had begun to scar, but the bruise had faded. It had been a vicious thing, dark purple creeping towards her neck and her shoulder. One of the people in town had seen the edges of it peeking from beneath the neckline of her dress, then averted her eyes with something like pity. They always did. 

More people had noticed when the marks to her face were fresh.

They never said anything to mother to put it to a stop.  

 

*

“Use your tongue-” she sighs. “Like the man on the book with the red cover.”

He had not seen much of her so exposed before.

Fresh from the bath, the chill of the air had caused her nipples to perk up. She hadn’t the chest  of a grown woman, though it was certain that she would grow into it soon enough. The soft curve of her breasts would be enough to separate her from her peers. Likewise, her hips were becoming broader than her waist, though corsetry certainly had to play a role in that. Her sex, however, was not like the one in the image. There was nothing emerging from that soft clamshell, no dusting of dark hair.

There is a small mole below her bellybutton. He rests his thumb there, uncertain how to proceed. It was easier to focus anywhere but his destination. He presses his lips to the inside of her right knee. The kisses move up her thigh at a snail’s pace. Her breathing deepens. her hands grasp the sheets.

He repeats the slow delaying tactic on the other side.

It isn’t until he starts a path down her stomach that she huffs a frustrated, “Please, Thomas, it won’t bite.”

He closes his eyes and presses more kisses against her skin. It did not taste any different from the skin elsewhere. Where the flesh splits he travels one side, then the other. He can feel the muscles in her legs quivering beneath his hands, which as far as he can tell, remain steady.

Something firm resists his tongue. He can see it when he spreads her with his fingers, the small piece of tissue that had been exaggerated in the illustration. She may grow into that as well, in the years to come.

As he continues using his mouth, more than his own saliva coats his tongue. Her taste changes, more bitter, something he can’t quite place. Sort of like the smell of the clay after days of rain. A hint of metal.

She tugs on his hair and muffles a cry into her arm.

Everything grown here is bitter, why should the two of them be any different?


End file.
